WHTRJ Fanfiction Revamp Preview
by Kartoonfanatic
Summary: Kudos to Demonic lil Angel and all who still remember this nearly unforgettable Cartoon Cartoon. My continuation of the long dead Cartoon Network show "Whatever Happened To Robot Jones", put in a somewhat more complicated story. Fearfully, I start to attempt to end the unfinished story. I hope you enjoy.
1. Dear Mom and Dad

**District of Columbia: September 4th, 1954**

In the heart of Washington, settled cleverly between the streets of some of the most recognized government offices in the country sat one building classified private.

No better way to hide than in plain sight.

Midnight, and inside the main entrance, robust chuckles echoed off of the high walls of the enormous hallway, as two men walked and talked on their way down the dark, left corridor.

"Kerdy," said the very slightly stout man with a roll under his chin, long dark eyebrows and slicked back, thinning hair of the same color that came to a widow's peak, "I have been anticipating this for so long."

"No, Mr. McCarthy," said the other, balding man with a cheeky smile, "The pleasure is mine. I'm a big fan."

"Thank you."

The Wisconsin Senator and his chubby, short escort reached the end of the hall and hit a white, circular wall. Going around a few feet, they then stopped outside a set of metal, navy doors, with long, narrow strips of windows near the middle from which McCarthy could faintly see people settled inside the lighted room.

"Please, come in," asked the man called Kerdy, opening the door. "I'm glad that you could find the time to come by. I think you are going to be most impressed with the technological discoveries you see tonight."

Kerdy was a five and a half feet from his polished shoes to his shiny head, and almost as wide around the waist as he was tall. The only remaining trace of his hair was silver sideburns, and his plastic-looking tan face wrinkled every other second that he flashed the visitor one of his porcelain-tooth smiles.

"Just as long as you keep the Commies from it," McCarthy mumbled with dull eyes as black as the night outside.

"I wouldn't dream of it another way."

Mr. Kerdy let the other man go in first, which gave him time to roll his eyes, then quickly replace his grin he pulled the door shut behind him.

Contrast to the hallways, the lights inside the room were on. It was made up of a tiny arena, with seven rings of chairs heading down the stairs to a large circular floor at the bottom, where the chairs were filled with at least ten different men.

Kerdy thrust out his arm to the men at the bottom of the arena. "I'd like to present to you, the finest men of the Founding Fathers. I dare you to find a better array of the brightest businessmen, scientists and politicians in the country grouped together in one room."

McCarthy took a few curious steps around the arena. Some of the men were more familiar to him than others, because of their frequent appearances on political campaigns, public service announcements, and more significantly, scientific publishings. A few, however—who's faces were the most immediately recognizable, in fact—were simply clever businessmen from all types of retail, sitting there, for the most part, because of their money. An assortment of different men from a rainbow of popular media.

But as he came down the steps, there was one gentleman on the end—one he didn't recognize from his outside career, not from magazines or newspapers, not from TV or even popular conversation. He didn't recognize this man at all, and he looked nothing like the rest of the people he sat with.

This one man was absurdly tall-about six feet, four inches, if he were to stand up. Even sitting, he came up at least half a head above the second tallest sitting man in the room, with a body type resembling that of Abraham Lincoln. Although nameless at this point, it was very hard to glance over him.

Much like the younger sixteenth president, he was built with fairly sized muscles up the shoulders and up the torso like a minor woodsman. Separate from the mostly balding men in the room with shiny domes of skin surrounded by toffs of hair by their ears, this man had a full head of gray locks that shot from his scalp in thick, but soft locks and hung down relaxed like the leaves of a coconut tree. On his face, he had a large, triangular nose, and hiding just under his bands were his unmistakable white eyes, the size of baseballs, with tiny, navy irises. He wore no glasses, for unlike most people his age, he had perfect vision. However, underneath his humongous eyes sat a series of slight lines, the only wrinkles appropriate for a man of his true age that appeared on his face. Despite first conclusions because his height, and his appearance, this man was actually older than the rest by ten years, at the very least. It was almost impossible to make out more than a drop of fat on his belly from under that lab coat, compared to the majority of the rather husky men in the chairs to his right.

As large as he was, this man was actually the most quiet of the group. His mouth, which was appropriately small, for as soft spoken as he was, was framed by the thin hairs of a beard, with a goatee end that pointed down his large chin like an upside down teardrop.

McCarthy waited for Kerdy to step at his side before leaning in and whispering, "Who is that?"

"Him?" the bald man replied.

"I've never seen him before," McCarthy commented. "What does he do?"

Seemingly too far away to hear them, it was as if the lonely man suddenly had an itch in his ear, or simply sensed that be was being talked about. He glanced up, mouth slightly parted, and McCarthy could now see under his bangs the man's guiltless, shiny eyes. "Senator McCarthy?"

The fact that he had actually spoken aloud surprised the men around him.

Smiling, McCarthy stepped down the stairs and approached the cautious looking man in his seat. As soon as he saw this, the gentle giant rose from his chair, like a statue turned alive, fiddling with the tips of his rough fingers.

"Nice to meet you," he finally stuck out his hand with an awkward smile on his face.

"Charmed," the suited Senator took the awkward giant's hand with comfort. "And... who might you be?"

The tall man, seeming almost unprepared for the simple question, to take a brief instant to remember. "... Jones," he said in a moderately deep voice. "I'm Dr. Jones."

"Ooo... a doctor," McCarthy said, cracking a smile from the side of his face.

"Jones has done some incredible things since coming here," Kerdy told his famous guest, slapping a heavy hand on the doctor's shoulder, making the doctor cringe and have to force a smile.

"Really?" McCarthy asked. "What kind of medicine do you work in?"

"He's not that kind of doctor, McCarthy. This is a man of science."

"Really?" asked the Senator, squinting his eyes, "You know, you look_ slightly _familiar. We're you on the Manhattan Project?"

"Uh..." Jones said. "... I don't really know much about bombs, either..."

"Jones is more into the mechanical technology, aren't you, Jones?" asked Kerdy.

"Uh... yes! I ah... work in... auto-body," the doctor dropped that last part like it was a shame.

"Don't be so modest, doctor," Mr. Kerdy said. "Robots, automatons—all that."

"Oh!" McCarthy said. "Now there's something you don't hear everyday," he turned back to Jones. "So how far are we from the automatic house cleaning machine?"

Jones puckered his lips nervously. "... pretty far?"

"Ahahaha!" Kerdy laughed. "Jones, you _killer!_" he turned to McCarthy. "No, I swear, this man has got a robot—oh, you just got have to see it to believe it."

Jones forced a crooked smile, again. His dark, olive-colored cheeks were turning slightly pink.

The sudden silence of a few of the men in the chairs made it clear that they had begun listening to them, even thought they looked to each other in a nonchalant way.

"If you'll excuse me," Kerdy said, "I must go and get the meeting started, gentleman."

With Kerdy gone, the senator continued to question the strange gentleman. "So tell me a little more about these robots. Are they intelligent?"

The doctor briefly tilted his head to the side. "In a sense..."

"Pardon me for asking," McCarthy looked from side to side, them dropped his voice, "But, how did a man such as yourself get into such an exclusive society?"

"Well... I... uh..." Jones raised a finger to his chin. .

"Excuse me, I didn't mean that as an offense," McCarthy assured. "You sound like a very educated man. You weren't from Oxford or anything?"

"Oh, no!" Jones shook his hands. "Nothing like that. Vassar, actually."

"Impressive," McCarthy commented. "I thought detected the slightest New York accent."

Jones grinned. "You did."

"What did you have to do to get into such an exclusive school?"

The doctor shrugged. "Grades. The right transcript..."

"Ca-ching, ca-ching," muttered a man in the circle behind them.

Jones swallowed hard. He felt his hands become clammy. Things were quickly falling apart, again—namely, him.

"For the right price, you'd think could've just finished school," another man in the chairs whispered to his neighbor.

There were some small chuckles.

While his ears gave him no trouble, Jones pretended that he didn't hear any of that, even though he was now undeniably blushing.

Whether or not the men intended for him to overhear that—which they had to, since they would have had to be idiots to not know he could hear them from eight feet away—the doctor was sensitive to all forms of criticisms. Even the slightest comment like that made him feel terrible, even though not finishing up his last few months in school was a decision he made without regret to that very day. He was more than capable of finishing his college education and becoming a full Professor, but there were things about school he was _not _capable of—social things that he had to flee from to save whatever shred of self esteem he had left. No surprise that at this point that it was a very small shred that remained.

Just another shot in the weak ego of Dr. Harris Jones.

"Well, I'm sure your machine is brilliant," McCarthy suddenly broke Jones' train of thought. The Senator turned and joined the other men in the chairs, as Kerdy prepared to make his announcements.

Embarrassed, the doctor sat back down slowly. He introduced himself to no one else. He did not speak up again for that entire meeting. Subtle, spirit-broken, he became the quiet giant once again.

And it was how the rest of them liked it.

Sitting there silently, picking at the chipped wood corner of the chair's pull out table while the rest of the men chattered away so smoothly, it was these times that the Doctor wondered how he got himself into these degrading circumstances. It seemed like just yesterday he was an independent inventor, living on his own, away from these _people._

Then he was whisked away into a world they told him would be life changing. A world where he thought maybe he'd finally feel like he belonged.

But now he was just a gear in a machine—a body in a movement he didn't even approve to begin with. It was too late for him. He was tangled in the corrupt organization with no way out, and every time the boss, Kerdy, gave him one of his phony smiles, Jones felt helpless.

The world didn't care about him. It was wrapped up in itself to understand one pathetic, loathsome man. To concerned with its own self gratification. And because of that, he would never let his guard down. He would be wary of people forever more, and it would take someone mighty special to turn that around.

* * *

**Delaware: Thirty Years Later**

_September 6th, 1984. _

_8:16 A.M. _

_Disclaimer:_

_Dear Mom and Dad units,_

_I currently sit here aboard this long, orange bus, off to an uncertain location, where I can best assume would be this 'junior high school'-wherever that is, exactly. I look out the window at the passing streets, gaze at the blue autumn sky and the red and orange trees—it is much too beautiful for me to regard as summer still, despite what the calender claims. I notice every single house we pass as we bend and turn though neighborhoods, all unfamiliar to me. _

_But you would hardly let me leave the house to see these things in the first place._

_I explain this before I begin because I want you to know where I am when I write this to you._

_This is certainly not the most comfortable form of transportation. I feel the shutter and shake of the vehicle and think, 'I just hope it stays in one piece'. I hear the nearly constant coughs and sniffs of the driver as he winds this thin-steel deathtrap of a vehicle through the village. I assume he has a head cold, and he is too lazy to deal with it properly like he should—with medicine. He glance up at the long mirror once and saw me gawking at him. When I did not look away, he turned his head from the road and glared at me for a moment. _

_He hates me already. Chalk that up as a new record. _

_Mostly, I hear conversation. Lots of conversation—Geez, and I thought the factory was loud. To only assume what this public school is going to be like, based on this experience? There are clicks of tongues and pops of bubble-gum and belches and all matter of bodily noises. _

_Ugh. In my time locked away, I forgot how disgusting human children can be. _

_I can't make clear sense of all the idle chatter. Few of the conversations around me are congruent. Even less of them intelligent. _

_They are talking about me, too, you know. They always do._

_Human beings. _

_Of course, in my experience, humans appear to have such diverse first reactions to us, but the majority tends to lean on the less mature side. _

_This one wide-eyed boy, for example, leaned over my seat and made a sound of awe, knocking on my head, as if he didn't believe I was really there. I told him my brain was very fragile, and I asked him to please stop. _

_He responded by salivating on my head. _

_I don't understand humans. _

_But I can't bring myself to hate them. It is not their fault they are inferior. Gramps unit claims they are to be wary of and untrusted, but for the majority of them, I would rather believe they are to be pitied._

_I am not certain about what can be learned from humans. I question if anything is worth being taken from their culture, as their tendency to revert back to their ancient instincts in daily scenarios, as I see on the television and read in books, is primitive, if not frightening. _

_I begin to wonder who could possibly yearn so much to learn about these creatures in depth, but I understand that our role on this planet is not to question, but to take in our orders, and follow through with them. _

_That's the sad thing about us, don't you think? That machines of such intelligence are reduced to the petty jobs that the humans cast away? I think that it is not just the service droids that are slaving at the will of the human race, but, again, I know there is a narrow margin for me to complain. I'm only supposed to study them._

_I understand that we are not the typical breed of our kind. I understand that we have certain duties that others of our kind do not. I understand that collecting information is why we are here, and I understand that this is not only an obligation, but a privilege. I understand how fortunate it is to be deemed competent enough to take on this task, when so many other robots might only wish to be in my place. I know I am blessed, and I am grateful. By no means do I consider for granted that which propels me to a special level of superiority in our species. I do not resent what I am. _

_And I certainly don't resent you for making me do this. It's just... How you could do this to me? How _could_ you do this to me? Why?_

_I start of wonder if this is a test. Is it? Is this another way for you two to test me? Haven't I done enough already to show how competent I can be? I mean, it seems like all I do is try and prove myself. _

_You must be aware of my confidence. I know I am capable of this task of studying humans. It can't be that hard to uncover their daily rituals. _

_But..._

_(sigh)..._

_Of all humans, did it really have to be teenagers?_

_You expect me to study them? To get along with them? To have 'fun' with them? After eleven years and a brief history of attempts to intergrade with them so long ago, I can hardly imagine myself having success trying to do the same again. Working with them may be easy for you, but I have grown accustom to the bubble that our home has provided for me. _

_I'm not like you._

_I'm not like humans._

_I'm not like anybody. _

_And of all things, if the media has any hint of truth to it, I am probably the least like junior high schoolers. _

_Eventually, I became curious regarding our destination. I reached over and poked the shoulder of one male child sitting curled up across from me and asked, "Pardon me, how far are we from the address of the junior high school?"_

_He looked up tiredly, did a double take, and pulled himself closer to the window. He refused to further acknowledge me._

_Obviously, one can't count on humans for anything. It appears I will have to rely on solely myself to complete this mission and survive human public school. Like always, I know you want me to be independent. I can assure you right now that I couldn't dream of ever going up to the humans for help—for anything._

_But I suppose I shall learn soon what humans my own age are like. Perhaps, even as I am in in the bleakest of my moods, I can be hopeful of finding a congruency between these animals and myself. Even as I must pinch my sound receptors from the random, unintelligible shouts and screams from the rows of seats ahead of me, I find a glimmer of warmth in the light-hearted humor of it all. I guess if I were to look at our hyperactive similarities, my mission doesn't appear so daunting. _

_I follow my orders. I am an obedient child... _

… _mostly... _

_So I say that I reluctantly agree to the mission, even though I believe you know very well how I feel about the majority of the human race. Their conduct to me in the past has but a meager, if any, sliver of kindness. _

_Will I still do it?_

_Yes._

_Will I like it?_

_There is severe doubt that I will. _

_Will I wind up tearing the school down and annihilating them all?_

_...eh... it could happen. Anything is possible. _

_Will I try to behave myself?_

_I'm not making that promise. _

_But I do promise that I still respect you two. _

_Your son, _

_unit Robot Electro Jones_

_Author of the Data Log following._

_**Sorry for the long author's note, but there's a lot of stuff that goes along with this. **_

_**Right off the bat, I have to give credit to the author who gave me the nerve to post this.**_

_**This probably wouldn't be published if not for Demonic lil Angel**_ _**and her Robot Jones story "Whatever DID Happen to Robot Jones?", which proved to me that in the 2010's there are actually some fans out there who actually still care about Robot Jones, especially enough to write a good fanfiction for the show. **_

_**I started writing my story along with many unfinished fanfics about a year ago, but after discovering her fanfic, I was touched. She's right when she says this show needs more attention. I loved her story, and I felt kind of bad that it was the only serious Robot Jones fanfiction out there. For a show like this to not have any fanfiction, when even the most stupid and terrible cartoons from God knows where get at least one fan to keep their stories going and keep their memory alive—that's inexcusable. **_

_**This is my response to this problem, and to the tenth anniversary of the series premier. After a year of quiet writing and planning, I finally present "Whatever Happened to Robot Jones: Fanfiction Revamp."**_

_**First, yes, I probably need work on my Robot voice. **_

_**Second, if you know this show, and you've got an issue with the date I chose, lay it on me. I'm not an '80s expert (I know saying that could be used to argue that I've chosen the wrong show to write about, then XD) . I based that date on what the internet tells me, and it seems almost positive that the series takes place in the early eighties, but some sources lean more towards the later eighties and closer to the nineties, which get's me giddy, 'cause hey, I know THAT decade! Also, in the last episode "Rules of Dating," there are quite a few hints dropped that tell me that the setting takes place in the later '80s, as we hear Robot say something about a CD-ROM, and, I see a FREAKIN' MODERN DESKTOP COMPUTER in the background at the party house! I kinda guessed the series to be around '82 or '83 (mostly because of the appearance of the 'Wonder Cube', and the brief E.T. Moment at the end of "Vacuum Friend.) But there are a lot more references in the show that come from stuff that didn't appear until later in the decade (not to mention some references from the '90s and beyond, but it's just a cartoon, whadaya, want?)**_

_**So, again, please let me know if something sounds inaccurate. I tried to be fair to both sides and find a date that seemed believable. Also, as you will see as I get the story rolling, that I had a whole time-line to mold around this date, so it got really messy with trying to keep it all in order. When I had a realistic date for the pilot pinned down again, I really tried to stick with it. There's bound to be an error in my dates somewhere, and I'll say that now. I went back and changed most of the years, so they're probably be incorrect years that I say, along with the usual typos that we can't help but overlook when it's time to publish. I know this series is really supposed to not have ANY date, because it's an alternate cartoon reality, and they mention things that didn't exist in the eighties, but I though with a few adjustments, I could actually ground this surreal time into a realistic time-line.**_

_**Now to explain what this preview is about:**_

_**These are his thoughts as he's riding the bus to school for the first time. It's basically Robot's note to his parents before actually getting his Data Log started, saying, "Alright, I'll do this because I want to prove to you a few things, but here's why I don't agree with it, yada yada yada..." pretty much the argument that he would have explained to his mother, had his dad not so abruptly yanked him from the floor and kicked him outside. I hoped I had made it clear, though, that the idea is that Robot at this point thinks this is some sort of test that his parents have set up, just to see if he can perform the same task any better that they once did and interact daily with humans. In this story, Robot was raised and IS actually about eleven right here, like other sixth graders, and he DID encounter humans his life prior to this, so he sort of knows what the species in general is like. (After all, didn't he technically HAVE to run into humans at some point in his construction?) In the pilot, he already seemed to have his own idea of what humans were like when he said they were inefficient. So it's not like he's never ever been exposed to humans before, although this could be argued that this idea could have been given to him my his race-passionate grandfather, or some form of media he could have access to, such as TV, books or magazines, but I say Robot has dealt with humans in the past, just not in a while. **_

_**It appears to me from the pilot that Robot has been confined to his house for a while, as he might be nervous about leaving it. This is how Robot feels about being thrust from his "hibernation," so to speak, from the outside world, back into society, and with a mission that forces him to interface with people. I'm not saying he's lived in his house for his whole life, and in fact, as I get on with the story, I'll get to the journey that brought him from the factory to his house with his parents in the pilot. THAT, at least from how I look at it, adds up to about eleven or twelve years, so BAM, done. Did any of that make sense? **_

_**I know someone will kindly puncture a hole right though my age theory, and that's okay. I'm bending the logic of this series at least a little. **_

_**In my take on the series, I try to introduce a side story involving an original character named Dr. Jones, the man who is responsible for the creation of Robot's parents, and the robotics corporation aka 'JNZ' that they work for, and indirectly responsible for Robot Jones himself. So while teenage Robot has his struggles to fit in and understand humanity, the story bounces back to the past with Dr. Jones, who is a human, and his problematic story of trying to do essentially the same thing. **_

_**I don't know how it will impact the Robot Jones side of the story, but I really wanted to do pair up Robot's story with a humans, so it's like 'two persons, two lives,' who will eventually collide. Dr. Jones does not appear in every episode, but he becomes more important to Robot later on. Bits and pieces of the doctor's story will come here and there. **_

_**Well, here goes nothing. I hope you guys enjoy. **_**=) Comments and criticism would be great. **

**Whatever Happened to Robot Jones?_ © Cartoon Network_**


	2. A New Grip On Life

"_Man has made many machines, complex and cunning, but which of them_

_indeed rivals the workings of his heart?"-Pablo Casals_

* * *

By September 1985, experimental prototype Robot Jones had been attending Polyneux Junior High School for a year, and exposure to human adolescents had began to change his perspective of the entire world. For one thing, it became unbearably clear to him now that he was the minority in a grand society that he didn't quite understand, but that he wished to understand. With each passing day, he became even more fascinated with the species he once personally declared 'illogical, inefficient, and terribly unstable'. Even though some of them still often annoyed, aggravated, bullied and depressed him, he grew interested, and even excited at times to learn what it was that linked this species with his own—what was relateable between robots and humans, and what he himself had in common with them.

In early March of 1985, these feelings had driven Robot to create a special journal entry, assigned by himself, just for himself.

_Data Log Entry:_

_Humans are a very complicated species. The way they function, their reasons, goals and major daily rituals all continues to bewilder me._

In the P.E locker room, boys stood in front of the mirror, either flipping their soft hair with their hands or combs, or gelling or moosing it into different styles, like one eye-liner wearing boy with a green mohawk, or a defined lipped, almond-eyed kid with his extremely gloppy black bangs pulled back suspiciously like a dead king of rock and roll.

_Human teenagers in particular tend to drift onto many different paths as they set out to discover what make them unique from the rest._

On the end of the mirror, below the rest of the boys, short Robot used a noisy, electric buffer against the side of his bulb. He shut it off, smiled and admired its shine in the mirror for himself.

_I have tried a vast amount of human activities outside of the educational curriculum, although not all of these I admit to understanding. Particularly, I cannot say that I support the making fun of others for some form of odd amusement._

Bent over the shorter of the two water fountains, a little boy in nerd attire finished his drink and let go of the handle. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he had no idea that a taller, brawny kid in sweats had silently approached him from behind.

Just as the geek began cleaning his glasses with his shirt, his ambusher sucked in a deep breath. "Wedgie time!"

The little nerd barely had time to turn around before the bully's huge, meaty fist went plummeting into the back of his khakis, emerging with the white elastic of underwear and yanking it up to his large ears with a mouse-like squeak.

Dropping the poor nerd on his heels, the bully bent over laughing and paid no attention as an an even bigger, tougher girl came out of nowhere and caught him by the neck. She then promptly licked her pink-painted pinkie finger and jabbed it in his ear. "Wet Willy, Will!"

"AAGH!" the bully called William screamed as he kicked the air. "Sis! Your nail is poking around my eardrum!"

"What are you going to do?" she asked the powerless bully, "Tell _Mommy_?"

_Thankfully, my peer trouble is usually limited to the Yogmans..._

BINK!

After witnessing the last scene, Robot suddenly felt a tap against the back of his head. He turned and saw identically dressed brothers Lenny and Denny, standing across the hallway with slingshots and stones.

"Names and sticks may not be the fix," the meaner looking of the brothers, Lenny, chanted, reloading his slingshot, "But this outta scratch your paint, Jones!"

He aimed and fired again, striking Robot in the forehead with a huge pebble. "Hey, cut it out!"

"Watch it!" Denny, the higher voiced of the two, grabbed his twin brother by the sleeve. "You're gonna crack the brain, numb skull!"

"Don't you yell at me!" Lenny shouted back. "Just get him!"

The Yogmans proceeded to chase Robot down the hall to his next class, with the automaton holding up a textbook to protect the back of his head.

_But with all other annoyance I must encounter at this school, I could go without their constant torment. _

_Even I can not seem to escape the guilt of such behavior, with the mischievous adventures that humans Socks, Mitch and Cubey have frequently pulled me into. _

Outside Principal Madman's office, Robot had his trio of human friends waiting as he tinkered with the knob and a pair of jumper cables.

"Okay, I think he's coming," said a curly blond in a green jacket, best known as Socks. "Get ready..."

Socks motioned for the other two—Mitch, a shorter, red jacketed boy with long brown bangs in his eyes, and Cubey, a slightly even shorter boy with spiky, slicked back hair and red framed, blinder glasses—to move over with him to a safe, close view of the action by the lockers on the opposite wall.

As he moved, Socks grabbed a surprised Robot by the arm and yanked him away from the door.

"Got the wires hooked up, Robot?" he asked.

"As you directed, Socks," Robot nodded, showing Socks the red and blue cord ends. "But I don't understand what is to be accomplished-"

"_Shush!_" The human threw his hand over Robot's mouth. "There he is!"

The round bellied principal hummed to himself as he came around the corner.

"This is for forty Saturday detentions, you sucker," Socks whispered.

The gang, minus Robot, chuckled to themselves.

_I still do not get the purpose of pranks that will inevitably result in disciplinary action..._

Never the wiser, Madman reached for the bobby trapped door handle. The instant his skin made contact with the metal brought Socks, Mitch and Cubey jumping out, shouting. "Static shock!"

Madman's eyes blew up as he was lifted a foot off the ground, consumed by a painful bubble of electric current. "Yeeaaaaaaahhhh!"

THUD! He let go of the handle and landed on the floor on his back. His sheenless black hair stood on end, and he trembled as he flopped onto his side, trying to get his bearings.

Behind him, the experienced principal could easily identify the voices of the small group of social outcasts behind him. Sure enough, when he turned around, there were the four boys who spent the most time in his office, howling loudly across the hallway.

"Grrrrr..." Madman growled.

As the boys scampered away laughing, the charred and furious principal balled his fist yet again and uttered the name of his all-time most loathed student. "ROOOBOT JOOONES!"

… _although I can't say I don't enjoy them. _

_Six months ago, when my mission began, I could have sworn that there was not a thing on this planet that the humans had in common with the robotic species. But as time ticks on, I discover more evidence to suggest that not everything between humans and I are dissimilar. While humans tend to come in every shape and size, so do robots. Even if most of us, like my parents' copies, are produced in orders from ten to a hundred, we are all made of different parts, and we are all different individuals with different experiences. _

_I know that I don't look much like the teenagers I am intended to portray, but with my friends close by, I don't feel quite so much like an alien anymore. _

_I have learned that there are many wants and needs that robots and humans share. On the basic level, humans and robots both require regular doses of fuel to perform at top efficiency..._

In the cafeteria, as the kids shoveled into their mouths greasy, cheese covered slop that appeared pre-eaten, Robot stood by the wall by the outlet, safely tucked in the nook behind the support beam, reading a magazine with his charger cord in the wall. Despite his efforts to mind his own business, he couldn't help but pay mind every time one of the teachers came over to warm up their lunches in the microwave, sharing the same outlet as him, on the table next to him, and wound up gawking at him from the corner of their eyes.

One kid who's food allergy required him to bring his own lunch from home was a frequent user of the microwave, and something of an acquaintance to the robot.

"Hey, Jones," the boy said apathetically as he tossed his plastic bowl into the microwave.

Robot briefly glanced up from the magazine and nodded. "Richardson," he neutrally replied.

_We robots and humans both must rest and recharge... _

"Okay... now who can tell me what year Ms. Dickens wrote—Robot Jones," a mature female voice rang out, bringing to attention the bored English class, "I told you, no sleeping in my class!"

In the middle row, The little robot's head shot up from his desktop. " 'amsir!"

The class snickered. The young brunette teacher reluctantly half-smiled and shook her head. "Very cute, Mr. Jones."

_And occasionally take use of the lavatory..._

Flying from the classroom and running diagonally across the hall with a pass stuck in his claws, Robot's long, wide feet make him appear clumsy on his flee to the closest bathroom at the end of the hallway.

_...frequently use it, in my case. _

"AAAGH!"

"Get out of here!"

Following the shrill voiced protests, the pink bathroom door with the female symbol swung open, and a terrified Robot bolted out, screaming, "Error! Error! Error!" His eyes were closed and shielded only by his tiny claws as he scrambled in loops around the hallway blindly, terrifying nearby students, and finally bursting into the blue boys room next door.

_Sometimes I forget how serious humans are about the separation of their genders. _

_Just as humans of the teen age, I have extra curricular activities, I complete my homework, do chores around the house, and express my interests creatively..._

At his locker, Robot taped a small picture of a typical white outlet cover to the left inside. Then as he stood back to admire the image with a seductive smile, he missed a large, pale boy in a black T-shirt and bleach blond hair and a cross frown march up behind him.

Realizing the human's presence, Robot's head spun around. "Whoops... pardon me."

Even though he wasn't in the human's way to begin with, Robot politely stepped to the side and allowed the large male to access to his locker just next door. After he sifted around inside for his books, the boy glanced inside Robot's locker for a second, then as he prepared to march away, he did a double take and gawked at the picture of the outlet.

Robot 'bit his lip.'

The boy turned his head from the robot's locker and peered down at him with a tense eye.

Robot grinned awkwardly and tugged at his imaginary collar. "He-he-he..."

The boy slammed his locker, sucked in a wet sniff and swallowed, bearing his teeth. "Eeegh... freak."

_Although not all of my hobbies are shared by the humans with equal enthusiasm._

Embarrassed, Robot's arms slumped, and he shut his own locker and lumbered away to his next class.

_I reside with my parents in our home, just a few miles from Polyneux._

A little after three o' clock, when the front door to his house rose from the ground, Robot took just one step inside, and stood perfectly still in the doorway with his pupils darting to his left and right, scanning for movement.

_And just when I arrive home from the bus, convinced that I have completed my mission for the day and that my work is done..._

He took near silent baby steps on his path to the escalator, convinced that it was clear. But after only six feet-

"Little Robot..."

… _Guess what?_

Robot grimaced.

"Little Robot, come here..." Mrs. Jones called again from the kitchen.

… _More work. _

Caught, the automaton sighed. "Yes, Mom unit. I will be right there."

_I respect my parental units, but often I can't help but wish that they were a little more 'on the ball'. Especially Dad unit._

Later at the Jones house, Mr. Jones came speeding into the living room. "Magnet! Magnet! Where is my scientific magnet?"

Mrs. Jones turned from her computer. "Have you checked behind you?" she asked.

"Where?" Mr. Jones whirled around in a loop, just to find nothing.

"No," she pointed, "Behind you, dear."

"Where? Where? Where?..." Mr. Jones complained. His wife had him rolling around in circles, with the large, red and white magnet stuck firmly onto his back.

Watching from the side next to his mother, Robot slapped his face.

_Sometimes handling them becomes overwhelming, but I have gotten used to it. _

He approached his father and plucked the magnet off of his back. Gratefully, but with no conscious acknowledgment of embarrassment, Mr. Jones took the magnet from Robot's claw.

_You got to love them. They can't help that they are outdated. All I want to do is help them out however I can. And from what I have seen in the presence of my friends at Parent-Teacher Conference Night, I imagine humans feel the same way about their parental units. _

_Final Analysis: Benchmark: To date, humans still require much more observation. However, I believe more at the end of every day that understanding them is not that difficult, as their way of life is steadily seeming closer to our own. _

But even as he wrapped up his entry, there was still something very important linking robots and humans that Robot left out. It was something extremely crucial to the development of robots and humans alike, and it would be many years before he understood what it was.

Even if that something was with him and all around him.

* * *

In those months following his first day of school, Robot became accustom to the daily routine that his prime objective ordered: Wake at seven, refuel at eight, school shortly after, back home at three, homework until six, refuel again with family, and in sleep mode by ten.

His parents worked well around this schedule, as they also had typical daily routines, with Mr. Jones leaving most mornings of the week after Robot went to school for work at the factory, while Mrs. Jones spent her day entering codes into the house's database, but most often, taking care of the housework.

With the changes caused by Robot starting his mission at the school, the Joneses became closer to the stereotypical American family than ever before.

On a normal afternoon at the Jones' steel, cube-shaped home, it wasn't unusual for Robot when he came home and help out his mother with the chores. Keeping up with their house's maintenance was a double duty. Not only was cleaning the house, as any house, a never ending job, but maintaining the electrical features of the Jones' home was another issue for the robots. And on days he was working, Mr. Jones' household tasks were left up to Robot to deal with.

Supper refuel meant it was finally time to rest, so it was a wonderful time when, after a long day at school and three hours of nonstop housework, the little robotic teenager heard the front door fly up and open.

"Dad unit is home!" Robot exclaimed in the den.

Before long, grinning Mr. Jones turned around the bend into the room. Robot jumped up from whatever he was doing, his face lit with delight, and the family exchanged their greetings and shared their day with each other .

After supper, the house settled down.

A rock video was playing on the brown TV set in the front of the room, although Robot was too engrossed in his work to pay attention. Since going to school, Robot had simultaneously accepted two workloads. Along with his task of studying the habits and cultures of the humans—he was expected to do the homework given to him by his human teachers.

Of course. If he was to go to school, he had to do the homework, too. That was part of the deal, even if he didn't think it was really fair.

As he was working, his mother reached over and switched off the television. The sudden lack of noise made him look up from his lap.

"It is nine thirty, Robot," she announced. "Time for sleep."

"Okay," he replied, shutting the notebook. "I'm just about finished, anyway."

After tucking his notebook under his arm, he jumped up from his seat and went over to the taller, blue robot in the corner of the room, tired and half asleep in his reading.

"Goodnight, Dad unit," said the younger robot.

The father patted his son's bulb-shaped head. "Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight."

Robot then returned to the pink she-bot, wrapping his arm around her side while she rested the tip of her pump on the top of his glass head. "Goodnight, Mom unit."

"Goodnight, Robot," she told him in her kind tone. "Pleasant dreams."

The little automaton then eagerly waved goodnight to his parents one more time before skipping out of the den.

But as he did nearly every night, he took a quick detour around the escalator into the kitchen, where he swung open a metal door in the corner, leading down to the near pitch-black basement. After bobbing down a single flight of metal stairs, he encountered an enormous supercomputer, antiqued at over four decades old. Robot touched the computer on the side with his claw with respect.

"Goodnight, Gramps unit," he wished his mechanical ancestor, "Pleasant dreams."

There was no immediate reply, which Robot could have just as well expected from his grandfather. Gramps was not just broken all the time—sometimes he was stubborn and just refused to speak.

But just before leaving, Robot heard the old computer mutter something barely audible in his ancient computer voice. "Ignorant robotic youth. What dreams do you know of?"

The teenager paused before the stairs, but didn't turn around.

Robot knew it was moot to respond to that, as not only did the great old computer like to pretend that he was deaf to any statements not sent into him by punch-cards—which he wasn't—but his grouchiness and negativity made him impossible to reason with. Regardless, the young robot's feelings were scuffed by his grandfather's question, and for the sake of upholding his dignity, he replied for once.

"I dream..." Robot said slowly, as if he were unsure. "... at least."

He skipped up the steps and hurtfully slammed the basement door behind him.

When his grandfather had made that exact remark a year ago, Robot neither had the confidence, nor the evidence to argue back. Gramps' question wasn't simply a harsh retort to the nighttime cliché Robot wished him. Computers and robots weren't really supposed to dream, but it was reported that a number of B-units—the most intelligently advanced class of robots—had been having what could only be understood as dreams in their sleep. The notion was amazing, and hard for humans overseers to believe.

But Robot knew it was true, because it was happening to him, too. The little automaton had been experiencing frequent mental thought projections in sleep mode ever since he started attending that human public school. In the dead of night, some manifestation of his conscious persistently broke his sleep program.

It couldn't just be a coincidence. Whether he liked it or not, the humans had began to rub off on him. His once thoughtless, peaceful sleep mode had been corrupted by the human influence. He knew deep down that somehow, because dreaming was a human thing, that this was their fault.

It was the second major effect the humans had on him. Studying the species in depth for only seven months, and already they had made changes in his functional life and what he wanted from it.

From the kitchen stairs, Robot rounded into the hall and dragged himself to the escalator, his innocent mind brought down under the weight of heavy thoughts. Little things that the automaton never thought were important were now a cause of great burden on his mind. Before his mission started, he might have doubted that there was anything useful he himself could take from the humans, but now he looked to them as a guide for "normal" and even "correct," and he felt guilt for thoughts and ideals that the humans perpetuated that he and his parents didn't seem to. He'd be too ashamed to ever admit it aloud, but the world of teenagers was taking the automaton on a journey of mental change.

And although he didn't know it, this personal evolution had only just begun.

On the eve of his thirteenth"birthday"...

* * *

**April 15, 1985**

"Mom unit? Dad unit?"

Just home from school, from the front doorway, Robot called into the dark house for his parents. When no reply came—which often it didn't whenever he had to ask—he entered, shut the door and began wandering around the home.

"Anybody home?"

He asked himself that as sort of a bitter joke. If his Dad wasn't home, and his Mom wasn't home, then surely there was no one home to answer him. Robot hopped onto the escalator, calling his parents names every now and again as he went up, even with the heavy feeling that no one was going to answer him.

"Mom? Dad?" he asked again as he puttered around the upstairs hallway.

"I am afraid, Robot," he turned when he finally heard another voice reply to him. "Your parents are on another company errand and will not be back until late."

But Robot nearly always forgot about the R.T., the computerized robotic teacher program talking through the enormous, blue monitor that was instructed to teach him about a set of new robotic laws issued the previous year.

The big, blue computer monitor was active and speaking to him from inside the upstairs monitor room.

"Again?" the little automaton asked as he approached the computer, "That's the third one this month."

"They have been a trite busy, haven't they?"

"And they took off before I got back," Robot said with a frown. "Again."

Sometimes his parents lack of consideration depressed him. They were always kind and eager to tend to him as parents should, but when business called, they seemed to forget about him very quickly. For the past few years, Mr. and Mrs. Jones had been called for more and more executive meetings all the way back at their factory, counties away. Often, they would get the notice and set out right then and there. Since the meetings were scheduled at random, their first reaction as robots was always to go immediately, and quickly. Even on that day, too.

"Seems they have more important things to do then to spend time with me today."

"Yes, indeed," the computerized teacher agreed.

Robot glanced up, narrowing his eyes. "I don't need you to confirm my observations."

"Oh, I apologize," the computer said sarcastically. "I didn't realize you could so competently think for yourself."

The little teen robot huffed and shook his head. The R. T. was a character, if there ever was. Despite being a computer personality, the robotic teacher with the rather humanized voice, was just as haughty and just as much a know-it-all as the worst of Robot's human teachers. He was just as annoying, too, and perhaps like the humans, a bit jealous of the mobile and superior robot boy.

"Happy Activation Day, _son_," Robot rolled his eyes as he muttered to himself the words that he had yet to hear. He turned on his heel with a stomp. "I'm going to my room."

The robotic teacher sounded miffed. "Shows that_ my _company is worth something to you."

Robot laughed incredulously. "Yeah, right."

"As it was," the computer told Robot as he began walking away "Before they left, your parents asked me to present you with something."

Reaching the doorway, Robot turned around with sudden interest. "They did?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. "What?"

Soon, there was a large, unnerving groan, like great steel collapsing under enormous weight. The lights in the house flickered with strain. Robot stood by and watched as the computer's long, modem panel under the monitor opened garage-door style, and out came, literally, on a steel platter, a short, wrapped box.

Robot was surprised. By the computer's wording, he didn't think he was getting an actual present, but there it sat. Ribbon and all. "Wow."

"My reaction, as well," the R.T. said.

Robot didn't get gifts from mom and dad very often, not even on his anniversary. His didn't see the reason behind them. They provided their son with everything he needed to function properly, so giving him anything else would be frivolous.

Curious, Robot picked up the box to test its weight. "What do you think it is?"

"I would have no clue."

"Really?" Robot questioned warily, lowering an eyelid at the huge monitor. "My parents place a large, colorful box right inside you, and even _you_ don't know what's inside?"

"I was only following orders," the computer defended.

Robot looked back down at the box and slightly tipped his head to the side. This _was_ unusual of his mom and dad. He couldn't fathom what on earth they thought he might want or like. Something cool, something normal-like an album or new sports equipment-seemed highly unlikely, from them, anyways.

"Well go on: Open it," the robotic teacher urged. He didn't want to be left in suspense, either. He didn't live for much excitement, being trapped in that great computer, and sadly, this was probably the high point of his day.

Robot tugged at the yellow bow, pulling the ribbon through the knot with ease. Dropping the ribbon to the side, he lifted off the lid and looked inside. He made a confused frown before setting down the lid and digging through the white tissue paper. "What are these?"

He lifted off a sheet of paper to reveal a pair of objects that were somehow familiar to him. The computer leaned forward a thin metal arm with a red bulb on the end, which emitted a sharp circle of light that carefully scanned the objects. After just ten seconds, the eyeless computer had collected an answer. "Why, they appear to be... hands?" he said, sounding puzzled.

Robot studied them carefully. They were made of some form of black, ballistic material that almost felt like rubber to the grip, but firmer. The arrangement of the thumbs told him one was left while the other was right. A simple stripe of red ran down from the fingers to the palms, and encircled the wrists.

"More like gloves," Robot responded. Despite their large appearance, He peeked inside one of them and saw that the space for the hands was rather tight. In fact, there was only space for two long, boxy fingers. "Were these made just for me?"

"It would only make sense."

"But what do they do?"

"Try them on. Maybe it will give you a clue."

It was an interesting suggestion. Gingerly, Robot slipped on the gloves. They had a snug, yet comfy fit around his claws, like skin to bone. The computer was right, of course, for Robot soon found that the gloves weren't just for show. By lifting his one of his steel digits, he activated the move in all four fingers, while the thumb was controlled by the other digit. Before sixty seconds had passed, he'd mastered the mysterious gloves, but was still perplexed as to what their purpose could be.

Robot held out his new hands in front of him and drummed his fingertips in mid air. "Interesting." He smiled and turned his attention back to the computer."Why do you suppose they waited to give me these now?"

"I cannot be certain. Perhaps they are to assist in your primary task."

"Maybe," Robot considered, "But I don't see how hands would help me gather human data." Robot squeezed an imaginary ball in one fist. "I'll have to ask them when they come home."

For now, he had to accept the R.T.'s conclusion. This was turning out to be one of the most unusual anniversaries in his record. While it was typical of his parents to go do things and make decisions behind his back, leaving him to speculate, it wasn't in their nature to be spontaneous like this. And it really wasn't like them to give him something without a reason... unless they thought they were obliged to.

Then he had a realization. Could it have been they felt bad for leaving him all the time without warning, or simply for leaving him so much? Or what about for leaving him today of all days? It was the thirteenth anniversary of his activation, after all. The least they could do was be there with him, and the fact that they couldn't this year might have made them to feel guilty. He wondered, if so, that if this was an attempt to make up for it. Just thinking of such a possibility made him warm inside.

Still, nothing would beat their company that day.

While Robot struggled to understand human beings, his own parents were another cause of his disorientation. Mr. and Mrs. Jones may have been his true and real parents, who raised him from his earliest days and instilled in him everything they knew, but even that hardly seemed to make them any less strange to Robot. And as the teenage robot continued to get older, his mom and dad's actions and the way they thought were only getting harder and harder for Robot to understand. He hated to admit it, but in a world of confusing humans, even he couldn't relate well to his own robotic family. And sometimes he couldn't help but wondered why that was so.

* * *

_**The Next Day...**_

"Nice new hands, dude."

"Thanks, Socks."

"So what are they made out of? Rubber?" Mitch poked the gloves, lying flat on the table. "Heh, check it out, the fingers bounce!"

Robot pulled his gloves back, and held them close as he gazed down at them. "I would just like to know what they are for."

"Who cares?" asked Socks. "They're neat. Now you got five fingers."

"There was nothing wrong with the two I had," Robot argued.

That wasn't entirely true. Robot's claws were versatile, but he occasionally had trouble holding things with them, like pencils, and he knew there were times when he could really use four fingers and a thumb.

"Aah, you complain too much," Mitch said. "My parents always give me crud presents for my birthday. One time I got a battery powered toothbrush and a baseball cap."

"That's still something," remarked Socks. "One time I got an I.O.U."

"No spit?"

"Seriously. Mom was like, 'Oh, sorry, honey. With the new baby here, we kind of forgot'... Of course, it could have something to do with my room not being cleaned for three months..."

The other boys and Robot gazed at him without sympathy.

Socks leaned back in his chair. "Hey, my middle name is procrastination."

"Heh..." said Mitch. "Funny. My first word was 'Idoitlater.'"

"Get out."

"Yeah."

"No."

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Naw, it was Mom. You?"

"Ma."

"Cubes?" Mitch looked to the boy across the table. "You?"

Cubey motioned for Mitch to come in closer. He plucked Mitch's right headphone from his ear and whispered something, then let go.

"_Really?_"

"Yeah, see my mom was working, and my dad was taking care of me during the day. Then once time I walked into the kitchen when dad was making dinner, and I kind of 'spooked' him when I grabbed at his pant leg. He was taking a pan out of the oven, and his hand shot up and hit the element. Low and behold, my first word." Cubey frowned. "Mom's still kind of peed off that she wasn't there..."

"I think in this case," Socks said, forcing back a giggle. "What she didn't catch... probably won't hurt her."

Now Cubey looked spooked. "That's exactly what my dad told me!"

"What about you, Robot?" asked Mitch.

"Ah, why bother asking him?"

"Becha his first word was '_Working...'_" Socks imitated Robot's emotionless tone, making the other boys laugh.

"Hmm..." Robot scowled, picking up a screw from the basket on the tray in front of him.

"No! I got it!" Mitch said excitedly. "'_Greetings world. I am Robot Jones.'_ Eh, Robot? Wasn't it? Huh? Huh?"

"Oh, that is just silly," Robot rolled his eyes.

"Then what was it them?"

"Well, My first word was..."

There was a pause as Robot's sentence trailed off, and with his one arm still up, he ceased all movement.

"... Uh-huh?" asked Socks eventually.

But still, the automaton was quiet, wearing a frozen face of absolute nothing. His mind had dawned a bright, white blank. Every string of thoughts in his complex computer brain disappeared. Moments passed by where he actually forgot what they were just talking about, and with his friends were leaning forward, staring at him, they were only making it harder for him to think.

After about a minute that seemed like an eternity, Robot's brain fully recovered the conversation, and the memory of what he was trying so hard to recall. His face unstuck with a blink, leading into a frustrated frown. "Hmm... That's... strange," Robot said, dropping the screw back into the container. "I don't remember my first word."

"Who does?" asked Cubey.

"It's just something you know," added Mitch, "Something you ask about when you're a kid."

"But... but I remember _everything_!" Robot suddenly exclaimed. "This is unacceptable!"

It wasn't that he couldn't remember the exact word that bothered Robot so much. It was the thought that he just couldn't remember it that scared him. His memory was countless times better than an average humans, and he had a very detailed memory of his early operation. It just wasn't like him to forget anything quite monumental like that.

"Don't bust your bulb, dude," Socks said. "Just ask your mom."

Cubey nodded. "Yeah. Moms remember that stuff."

"Of course," Robot thought with a bit of relief. "If I don't remember my first word, Mom will. No need to worry. I'll bring it up tonight at supper."

But even after he said that, Robot pushed his tray of oil and screws away, and buried his head in his arms for the rest of lunch period. His mind filling up with insecure thoughts, he suddenly wasn't that hungry or thirsty anymore.

* * *

"Oh, eight-hundred, sixty-four-trillion nanoseconds in a day," Mrs. Jones complained to her son as he helped her around the house, "And we still never cease to find something to do around here."

"At least I get to leave for school," Robot commented to himself quietly while he utilized his extendable limbs to dust the pipes and corners of the living room.

"Could you lend me a hand over here, Robot?"

The little automaton turned his head and threw the rag he was using into a nearby bucket. "Yes, mom."

Robot approached his mother near the television, and with an incredible feat of strength, he lifted up the set above his head.

"Thank you," said Mrs. Jones as she swept the vacuum attached to her arm across the gray square on the white floor.

"Would you look at all that dust?" said Robot with a tisk.

Except the sound of the vacuum, which had been running for so long now that it seemed like a gentle hum, things seemed kind of quiet to Robot when a loud Klaxon horn suddenly erupted. All at once, the room was bombarded by noise, and a vibrant red light appeared from above. Robot and his mother looked up at the source—a flashing, spinning red lamp on the ceiling, now activated.

"_Warning: Atmospheric purity might be corrupted_," announced an female automatic computer recording. "_Seek exit and fresh air._"

"Gee," said Robot. "What a critic. If she thinks it is so bad, she out to come out here and help us."

"Oh..." Shaking her head, Mrs. Jones complained, "That robot and his chemicals..."

"What is Dad unit up to now?" inquired Robot.

"Same thing as always: His confounded little chemist hobby that consumes nearly all of his spare time, that he could more efficiently be spending on assisting me_ clean up and repair this house._"

Robot's mother said that last part sounding very annoyed. She approached the intercom that lead to her husband's lab in the next room and pushed down the switch with annoyance. "Electro, come on out. Time for dinner."

She let off the switch for a moment, waiting for a reply. When four silent seconds went by, she hit the switch again with the same fierceness.

"Electro..."

Again, nothing.

"Electro, do I need to come down there and-?"

"Alright! Alright! Alright!" Mr. Jones' voice finally emerged from the speaker. "Be right there."

Mrs. Jones sighed and rolled away from the intercom, while her teenager's eyes feel half shut with a similar exhaustion.

Robot thought his father was a rather unusual automaton. Not only was he both a factory superintendent _and_ a worker by volunteer, but he had some quirky dad-like hobbies that ranged from model building to contemporary art. Whenever he had a free moment at home however, Mr. Jones mostly busied himself with amateur chemistry. He had played with chemicals and their tools for as long as Robot could remember. As a workaholic who detested boredom, his dad unit spent many slow weekends of Robot's life locked in his special little laboratory, lost in the wonder-of all things, appropriately—science, away from his wife and child. Although he did often invite his son to join him, Robot usually wasn't the least interested in the nature of his father's experiments. Robot was a kid like any other, and especially after a long week at school, the last thing he wanted to do was test him brain with more tedious educational material. So when Robot did agree to assist his father, it was for the sole purpose of spending quality time with him.

"Now go wipe up, Robot," his mother told him as she turned off the vacuum. "Your father will be out any minute—providing I do not have to drag him out here by the plug."

After he picked up the bucket of dirty rags, he gazed off to the side nonchalantly. "Mom unit... what was my first word?"

"Shouldn't you remember that?" she asked. "You remember your first days after activation, after all."

"Yes, but for some reason, I can't recall my first word. I don't have a record of that."

"How peculiar," she said.

"So, what was it?" he asked eagerly. "Was it 'processor'? Or 'battery'? What was it?"

"Well," Mrs. Jones removed the vacuum attachment from her arm, "It is not in my recent memory. Let's see..." She pulled the vacuum to the side by the wall and gave herself a moment to check her memory banks. After some hisses and beeps, she her face lit up. "Hmm... that's interesting."

"What?" asked Robot with flashing eyes.

"The information does not seem to be in my memory banks at all."

Her son blinked, blanked-faced, then after a moment, he chuckled. "Ha-ha-ha, you're joking, right?"

"No, Robot. I am serious. I really do not recollect that event."

Robot dropped the bucket, dirty rags and dust spilling out. "But... but that's impossible. You've got to remember."

"I'm afraid I don't."

"But it's my first word!" Robot exclaimed. "You're _supposed _to know these kinds of things!"

"Robot Jones, calm down. It must be in our records somewhere," she assured. "When you come home from school tomorrow, I will have it for you. I promise."

"Tomorrow..." Robot slowly nodded. "...Yes..."

Another minute went by before Mr. Jones finally reared his head to the rest of the family, and they set up for dinner while Robot went upstairs to quickly wipe himself up. He dragged his feet, and he didn't speak much to his parents for the rest of the evening.

It was the strangest new sensation that was taking over the little automaton. That uneasy feeling he had around lunch that day had since drifted away, but now it was back with such a force, he almost regretted ever opening his trap. He was scared about something he couldn't even explain, and he just hoped with all his mother could find his first word tomorrow, if it would only take this terrible weight off his mind.

* * *

The next day's routine seemed to go by at a terrible crawl of its normal speed as Robot waited anxiously to get home from school.

Near the end of the day came Social Studies, where Mr. McMcMc had set up the projector that day to show a short movie to the class on what they were to expect next year. .

"_In seventh grade_," the smooth-voiced narrator drawled, "_You will be required to take the Constitution test, __which will determine your knowledge on the laws of our nation as well as your knowledge of the cabinets of government..._"

A paper airplane did a lazy loop-de-loop in the dark classroom, while nearly every kid that wasn't leaning back and sleeping had their heads propped up in their arms in the effort to stay focused on the movie, soon including Robot as well.

"_Only those who pass the Constitution test will be able to vote when they reach age eighteen. As a registered __United States citizen, you are entitled..._"

"Too bad, Robot," whispered Lenny Yogman, twisting around in his seat to Robot, sitting behind him. "Looks like everybody here is going to get to vote at eighteen, except _you._"

"I don't know what you are talking about," Robot replied without taking his eyes off of the screen straight ahead.

"Robots don't get to vote for president in the real world."

"Of course they do," Robot argued.

"Nuh-uh. Said right on there that you have to be U.S. Citizen."

"I am a citizen," Robot said, although he began to feel unsure as he said it. "I am."

"Prove it."

"I don't have..." Robot paused, blinked hard and took a moment to gather his thoughts. "Listen, I am not having this insignificant conversation with you."

"You don't have proof, do you?" Lenny asked with a smirk.

"Enough already."

"And how _was _your birthday, by the way? Do anything special?"

"No. Now quiet," Robot replied stiffly, still refusing to make eye contact. "You are going to get us into trouble."

"Really? You mean no backyard party, no trip to the movies..."

"Silence, human," said Robot, his internal heat rising.

"Oh, well," Lenny shrugged. "To each his own. And I'm sure at least Mom and Dad robots could make time in their busy schedule to be there for-"

"WOULD YOU BE QUIET?" Robot shot up on his feet, busting through the wood of the desktop in front of him, leaning into Lenny's face so that their eyes were only centimeters apart.

The narrator in the background continued on, but a new silence took over the classroom as all other noises ceased completely. As he stood where the top of his desk was just annihilated, Robot's balled fists, tucked inside his new gloves, were quaking at his sides. His crunch eyed, bare 'teeth' expression was of a total, inconsolable fury that was trademark only to him, and famous throughout the school. It appeared like an overload was eminent, but as moments passed by, nothing else occurred. Robot's gauges simmered down, and his face slowly relaxed.

In the dim light of the film, the automaton watched all eyes fall on him. He peered to his left and right. The rows of children all around him were now suddenly awake, and afraid. When he turned back, big bad Lenny, who had instigated the episode, now gazed up at the robot standing over him with a tinge of fear in his groggy, bloodshot eyes.

"... Ahem... Mr. McMcMc..." Robot timidly raised his arm, "I believe I require a trip to the restroom."

"Uhhhh... sure... Robot," the teacher said, blank faced. Normally, he would punish the student for such an outburst, but under the circumstances, McMcMc didn't want to enrage him again. Keeping his eyes on the little automaton, he pulled open his side drawer, felt around inside and pulled out a wood, rectangular board with a string on it, reading **Hall Pass** and handed it to him.

"Thank you," quickly said Robot before rushing out the classroom door.

The movie starting wrapping up, and the kids eventually returned to the screen.

"Whoa..." Mitch glanced to his left, where his friend's broken desk sat. "Dude must've really had to go..."

* * *

The bus pulled up to Robot's street at twenty after three, right on schedule. But the little automaton was still not satisfied with the speed that he got home. He hopped off the bus, ran up the few extra feet up to the cube shaped house and up to the metallic door like there were an emergency at hand.

That day, he didn't wait for the door to fly up with the press of a button. Instead, he grabbed the side and pushed it in by its right side hinges.

"Mom unit?" he shouted as the door flew in with tremendous strength and hit the wall. "Mom unit?"

Robot called his mother's name left and right as he searched every room in the house. The fear hadn't hit him until the ride home—that there was the chance that after all that waiting that he did that she would be out again on an unexpected errand. He didn't think he could handle more waiting. He was desperate to talk to her now. Fortunately, he knew as soon as he opened the door that she was home, because the lights were on.

"Mom unit?" he asked as he neared the kitchen. In his eyes' frantic darting left and right, he would have nearly passed her by, except that her pink paint caught the corner of his eye.

He hurried inside, where his mother stood, facing the sink. "Did you find it?" he asked with a pant.

"Oh, Robot," she answered with surprise, setting down a steel tray in the drying rack and turning around. "How was school?"

"It's not important," Robot wagged his hands. "Well? Did you find it?"

"What, dear?"

"Find what? My first word. You said you would have it by the time I got back from school today!"

"Oh..." she said.

"'Oh', what?" he dared to ask, even in a murmur.

"Well, Robot..." she played with a dish rag nervously. "I don't know what to tell you..."

"Wha... " Robot's already enormous eyes grew to absorb nearly every free inch of his face. "You mean..."

"I am sorry, little Robot," Mrs. Jones sighed. "I have looked everywhere. All day, I have gone through all the house records—hundreds of data disks, but I cannot find anything on your first word."

"But you promised!" he cried, sounding like a two year old.

"I know I did... I tried Robot, believe me. I'm running late with the housework, and on top of that, I just received a call at two o'clock," she added. "They need me down at the factory. Your father will be home in a few hours for supper with you."

Robot looked crushed. "But you promised..." he repeated hollowly.

"I am not quite sure what to say," she said, almost sounding apologetic in her monotone.

Mrs. Jones never sounded so humbled by her own mistake. By the way she spoke, it was like she was relying on the hope that Robot have forgotten about his first word by the time she was supposed to have it ready to present to him.

"Listen, I have to go shortly," she placed a pump on his shoulder, "But if you are still awake, we will talk about it when I come home tonight."

But Robot didn't want to talk about it later. She would be to tired to talk about it later. And the next day after school she would be too busy. Robot didn't want to be the victim of yet another one of her broken promises. He wanted to talk about this now. He wanted her _now._ But again, it appeared the company would make him wait, as it outranked him in priority.

As he watched her prepare to leave, a horrible thought began to from in his head. _She doesn't care... She doesn't even care, or..._

"Oh, dear... you..." he slowly began to back away from her, "...You weren't even there."

"What?" she turned around with surprise.

"That explains why you don't remember it! Either you weren't there, or you don't care!"

"Robot, that is ridiculous. Of course I-"

"Then why can't you tell me what I said? How come you can never tell me any stories about me? Your whole job is to remember things—you're a data collector, too! Are you implying that with your memory capacity that you couldn't at least remember a two-second event?"

"Robot, please settle down."

"First you ditch me on my anniversary, now this? You and Dad don't remember anything from when I was first activated, do you?"

He didn't give her time to reply, because as soon as he finished that sentence, he turned and dashed away from her.

"Robot Jones," Mrs. Jones called, "Come back!"

But he didn't listen. Robot ran up to the heavy metal front door, grabbed the side by the crack and went out the same manual way he came in.

There, he slammed the door behind him, and he leaned up against the side of the house with his arms folded, gazing down at the sidewalk until his trembling eyelids closed tight.

This was unusually dramatic for him, but Robot didn't know what was wrong with himself. Maybe before he encountered humans, he wouldn't have cared so much about this. The thought of his first word might have never crossed his mind had he never stepped foot into that human school. But now here he was, the human ideals dug under his metallic skin, and he was hurt. He hated to admit it to himself, but Robot realized he was comparing his family to humans again. And it really appeared for once that it was _his '_superior' family that was losing the race.

Did it sound alright that his mother had the memory capacity to hold an practically unfathomable amount of information, and yet _nowhere_ in that was his first word? Her own son's firsts weren't as important to her as human data? He was mortified to think that the first thing he ever said didn't matter as much to her. It hurt that, no matter now knowledgeable or attentive or diligent she was as a parent, that there was practically nothing about him when he was younger that she could tell him that he didn't already know.

Not long after, Robot heard a car pull up in the alley behind the house, and his mother left out the back door to catch her ride.

Of course, she wasn't going to wait for him to come back inside. She didn't even have the courtesy to do that for him.

Robot remained where he was, his feet planted on the concrete. Now that his mother was gone, he had the option back inside as keep his dignity, but for whatever reason, he didn't feel like moving an inch from his spot in front of the house, even as the sky grew dark and cars driving up and down the street for the night gawked at him.

By the time the sky was merely a rich orange hue over a blue horizon, Mr. Jones returned from work, pulling up around the sidewalk. With his head down, Robot almost didn't hear him until he halted just feet from the door.

The father unit didn't say anything at first, as was his nature, but when his son didn't make the first comment, the shy, old robot had no choice.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"She does not remember..." Robot muttered. "She does not remember..."

"Pardon?" his father unit asked.

"Mom unit does not remember my first word!" he yelled at his father, "She doesn't even remember when it happened!"

Mr. Jones replied with nothing but a surprised, wide-eyed blink.

Robot turned his head to the side, feeling somehow ashamed as he explained what grieved him. "... I've asked you guys for stories about me on and off for years, and I rarely got anything in return. I thought if there was one little thing that I could ask you guys to tell me about when I was first activated... Well, I thought it would be it. But I suppose that was wrong, and now I get why. I will no longer ask you about two anything else that you weren't there for."

Mr. Jones watched his son tip his head forward again, his face shadowed by the sunset. Hearing this was not easy on the robotic father. When ignorant confusion passed, he was every bit as guilty as his conscious permitted. He wasn't sure what to say—he wasn't a well spoken robot to begin with. In this situation, he wasn't even sure what to do. What _could_ he do to fix this?

Then, finally, his working memory banks produced an idea. "Come," Mr. Jones said. "Into the house."

"What?" asked Robot, looking up.

"I must show you something."

* * *

Mr. Jones led his son into the room in the house at the end of the den that he and his robotic wife shared. Robot was somewhat timid to enter where his mother and father charged at night—as with most parents' rooms, it was usually off-limits. But with his mother out of the house at the time, the old automaton seemed fine with admitting Robot just this once.

In the rather plain looking, spacious room, Mr. Jones knocked his large, metallic knuckle against the wall, and a long, slim steel plate ejected from the wall, pulling out with it a small, blue keypad.

"A false plate..." Robot said with awe. The mysterious Jones house had plenty of secrets, that Robot knew for sure, but he would have never guessed about this.

Mr. Jones punched in a eight-letter code into the keyboard with his fingers. Then there was a hiss, and below the keypad, another larger steel plate popped lose. This time, it was a full drawer that popped from the wall, in which sat a silver box that sort of resembled a small briefcase. Mr. Jones reached in, took out the box and set it down on a nearby table. He then undid the locks in front and cracked open the box. From the side, Robot peered and saw just a large stack of papers, which his father picked up in his hand.

"This is the original copy of your activation record," Mr. Jones finally spoke, turning and handing Robot the stack. "From your first day of operation."

Robot made a face as he nervously accepted the papers into his gloves. He couldn't help but the skeptical of that. If it was true, then they would have had to be printed over a decade ago, yet the pages handed to robot were still of a crisp satin color, preserved for years in that vacuum-tight, chrome box.

"And this..." Mr. Jones reached onto the box again and plucked out a single, short piece of paper, just as vibrant, and laid it on top of the packet in Robot's arms. "Do you know what this is?"

His son looked the paper for a moment with confusion. "No..."

"It is your birth certificate."

With those words, Robot was floored. His eyes popped as he looked back up at his father. "My... Birth... certificate?"

Mr. Jones slowly closed his eyes—it was another way he communicated the phrase 'yes.'

"I... didn't think I had one of these," said Robot.

"Your mother and I spent years determining your preliminary plans before humans snatched them away from us and ran off with the project. Guess they believed they could do a better job. Yet you were still made similar to quite a few of our original designs."

Robot's mouth parted in shock. It was rare for Dad unit to say more than eight words at a time—usually, people were lucky to pull more than six words from him in one setting. So when Robot heard his father say all that, he was the one who was for lack of words for once.

"The first thing they brought us when you activated was this record with your make, model, abilities, strengths, ect. We were upset—we were only excited about _you_. We wanted to see you up and running. We had been waiting for months to see more than a stack of papers. Then they finally brought you in, and soon we found out that you were nothing like what this packet made you out to be. You were spirited, and so_ lively_.This packet alone was inefficient. Your mother and I requested to file for a birth certificate, and this is what we received."

Mr. Jones could see that Robot needed a moment to take all this in, so he quieted down and let his son think.

Sitting in the palms of his gloves, there was his activation record—a short, thick packet of at least forty pages that explained him as a prototype. The text, broken into numerous regular and sub-paragraphs, was so small that someone would have to bring it closer to their face in order to read it.

And then there was the birth certificate—a single half sheet, seemed so much more flimsy and unimportant than the packet. But the amazing part what that both documents said what was basically the same thing, in two languages—man and machine. The two documents both proved his existence, but there was something about the certificate that was special. It said in at least fifty times less words what the activation packet said, and with a funny emphasis on just certain parts that Robot himself found more important. His unit number wasn't on there. Neither was his model, his patent number—which in his case, as a prototype robot, would seem extremely important. It stated the most basic details of his activation,

** Name: Robot Electro Jones**

** Date of Birth: April 15, 1972 **

**Sex: Male  
**

** Name of Mother: Rosetta Jones **

** Name of Father: Electro Jones **

** Filed and Issued: April 30, 1972**

"This is great!" Robot finally exclaimed. "It means I'm like a citizen of the state after all! It means-"

His father pointed down, making Robot drag his eyes to the paper again. This time, when the little automaton looked back up, he appeared crestfallen. "There is no state on here, is there?"

"Mm," his father unit replied.

"And there is no city, either. Or... or county."

Even if it highly resembled a real birth certificate, it wasn't the same thing. Robot identified, with a great let-down, some errors—information was missing, while there was other details of it that made it apparent that this didn't belong to a human, specifically a brown_ JNZ _brand-stamp at the bottom. To think that such pretty, perfect white paper could become so tarnished by a stamp that looked almost like someone stepped over it with their dirty sneaker. At the very bottom, it stated where he was first activated and where the certificate was filed, but there was no otherwise, any state, or even city authorization text didn't exist on the paper. The birth certificate was merely for vanity.

"So, there's no citizenship, then?"

"No."

Robot's frowned harder. "So I'm still just a machine."

"But the only robot of all the corporation who has a birth certificate."

"Really?" asked Robot with bright eyes.

"No one else does. Not you mother, nor I. Just you."

"Wow..." Robot clutched the certificate to his 'heart'.

"Do you feel better now?"

The little automaton smiled, his computerized voice almost cracking. "Yes."

"Do not tell your mother I let you see these," his father said. "This is between you and I. Clear?"

Robot looked up with wobbling, gold pupils. "As crystal."

Mr. Jones then held out his hand, and his son reluctantly returned the certificate with the packet to his father. Robot really didn't want to hand back the certificate. He wanted to hang on to it, keep it with him, safe and sound. But at that point, he was just grateful he got to see it for himself, with his own eyes, after thirteen years.

Now he finally knew.

As Roger punched in the lock-code, he said to Robot, "These will always be here for you. I will give you the code, and you will always be able to reach them. They will always be here for you, even if I am not."

Robot cocked his head a little to the side. "What does that mean?"

"Oh." Mr. Jones pulled back his hand from the keypad, "Nothing."

"_Safe locked_," the computer said, and red on the monitor.

It really comforted Robot to have the knowledge that his information was always going to be right there, in the wall, so close and within reach, rather than in some safety deposit box somewhere far away, in the grasp of those who didn't care about nearly as much as he did.

Before leaving, Robot kissed the tips of his gloved fingers and touched the wall where the box was hidden behind the two-inch steel, false plate.

"Come along," Mr. Jones said from outside the room, "Help me tidy up the lab."

"Coming," Robot replied.

He marched from the room, shutting off the light as he left, and when he was out of sight, Mr. Jones turned and took one last look at the fake wall plate inside the dark room again.

"Never forget... " the father unit uttered to himself in his robotic monotone. "... Never forget..."

* * *

"Really, Robot," Mrs. Jones told her son in the living room very late that night. "In my attentive filing, I have no idea how I could have lost that record. It is not like me at all, but I do not know how to excuse it. Can you ever forgive me?"

Robot threw his arms around her side with a grin. "It's alright, Mom unit. My first word is not really that important."

"Anything regarding you is important, son," Mrs. Jones told him, stroking the top of his head.

"It was kind of selfish of me to think that you guys keep track of everything. I suppose even machines make mistakes..." Robot rolled his eyes with reluctance to that remark, "... occasionally... "

"We do," Mr. Jones confirmed.

"But we try harder the next time," said Mrs. Jones. "That is what a family is all about."

"And I suppose I apologize that we took off on your anniversary," Mr. Jones added.

"I forgive you," Robot replied, standing in between his parents, "But next year... just don't do it again. Okay?"

"Done and done."

"Next year, there is going to be a grand party," said Mrs. Jones excitedly, "We will invite all your little human friends..."

"Aw, you two don't have to do that..._ really_," Robot smiled nervously, considering the kind of unconventional party his parents could throw for him. He stood in between his parents, glancing to his mom to his left, and his dad to his right. "Any anniversary with you is just good enough."

"Really?" Mr. Jones exchanged a confused look with his wife. "... If that is what you want, sweetheart," Robot's mother said.

The little automaton nodded. "It is _all _I want."

So maybe he wasn't a real citizen who could vote for president. So maybe his first word was lost. So maybe his birth certificate wasn't real. Robot didn't care. It still had everything important to him on it—twice as important as anything that prototype record said. It had his full, real name on it. It had his mother and father on it, with his name. It presented them as a family unit—that was worth a thousand first words to him. What was already written in his heart-drive was now on an official paper for the world to see. With that came a feeling of security that would stay with him forever after that night.

And as long as it stayed within his grasp, he would never doubt who he was.

_To Be Continued..._

* * *

_**Yeah, I know that was corny. What can I say? It's what I do. **_

_**To my first reviewer, thank you so much for the positive feedback. It's very much appreciated—I literally bounced on the walls. XD**_

_**I was going to leave this preview as a one-shot deal, but I wanted to lead into some of the bigger themes I have planned for this series. **_

_**I apologize if this chapter seems scattered. And that my Mr. Jones voice REALLY fails. **_

_**As far as I can tell at this point, I'll be doing this series with benchmarks at most of Robot's 'birthdays' . **_

_**I understand if this might not have the same feel or charm as a real episode. When I get into my actual episodes, I'll work harder on getting closer to that feel of that of the real episodes. **_

_**So... *robotic voice* STAY. TUNED...**_

_**Whatever Happened to Robot Jones? © **_**Cartoon Network**


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